


Lost in translation

by JustSomeGirlWriting



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Food Issues, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-09
Updated: 2019-10-09
Packaged: 2020-11-28 12:36:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20966666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustSomeGirlWriting/pseuds/JustSomeGirlWriting
Summary: In the aftermath of a bad incident at work, Gil fears that Malcolm is unraveling.He only wants to help, but the words come out all wrong.A continuation of 'Lost and Found, Mostly' and 'Finders, Keepers'.Can stand alone fairly well, I think.





	1. Chapter 1

In the aftermath of "the incident", Gil drives Malcolm home after each working day.  
Most nights, his offers to come in and cook the two of them dinner are refused, politely but categorically.  
Tonight is no exception. 

"Are you sure, kid? You're looking... Thin."

Gaunt is the word for it, really. Or skeletal, Gil's mind supplies unhelpfully. But Malcolm, for all his bluster, is fragile. He doesn't need to be prodded with blunt terms. Gil knows this, of course he does. It doesn't stop what happens next, doesn't stop him from screwing up. 

Malcolm sighs as he undoes his seatbelt, forces a smile and answers with false levity. 

"Thin, Gil? You wound me. At least Dr. Tanaka calls me slender!"

"I think you may be beyond that at this point, Malcolm... When did you last eat? Or sleep for that matter?"

Another sigh escapes Malcolm as he moves to sit on his hands. Gil wonders, not for the first time, if the kid knows how obvious it is when he attempts to hide his tremors that way.

"It's hard, Gil. I don't have much of an appetite. And the sleeping... It's been tough, or tougher, to unwind since... Since. But I'm okay, Gil. I swear. I can do the job, still."

Gil scoffs at that, unable to hide his annoyance.

"You think that's what this is about? The job?"

"Well, yeah. You want me sharp, right? Isn't that why you called me in on the copycat case? For my skillset?"

Malcolm's voice is cutting, cold. It's Gil's turn to sigh, deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation.  
Malcolm is being purposefully belligerent now.

"Malcolm, I say this with love, but I couldn't give a shit about your skillset. I care about you! I care that you're running yourself into the ground. I care that you're skinny, and that you have bags the size of a truck under your eyes. You're jumpy, you're shaking like a damn chihuahua. It doesn't take a genius to see that you're in bad shape. Everyone at the precinct with a functioning set of eyeballs can tell!"

As soon as that last sentence leaves Gil's mouth, he knows it was a mistake. A big one. He's scared to meet Malcolm's eyes but when he finally does, he sees a flash of hurt before complete blankness descends, his expression shuttering. When Malcolm speaks, his tone is tight, formal. 

"Well. I'm sorry to have embarrassed you in front of your colleagues, lieutenant. I was under the impression that I was doing my work to satisfaction, but if that's not the case then perhaps I should take some of that time off you suggested. At least until I'm presentable again."

Malcolm is out of the car in a flash, slamming the door even as Gil protests.  
Gil rolls down the window, calling after him as he makes his way to the front door.

Gil curses himself under his breath. He messed up. He resists the urge to throw on his hazards and run after Malcolm, knowing it would only make things worse to press the issue now. Even if all he wants is to apologize, to hug him, to tell him he loves him like a son and that all he wants is to keep the kid safe from everyone, including (especially?) himself. Gil puts the car in drive and silently vows to be back tomorrow.

_to be continued_


	2. Chapter 2

Gil shows up the next day, like he'd promised himself. It's a dreary Saturday, around noon, when he makes his way to Malcolm's. He orders croissants and coffee (decaf for the kid) at the overpriced cafe on the corner of the street. Hearing Jackie's voice in his head ("Make sure the boy gets his vitamins, Gil!") he asks for a large fruit salad, too. 

There's a knot in Gil's stomach as he walks the last stretch to Malcolm's front door. He's nervous to face Bright. Last night had been a massive screw up, perhaps the worst he'd ever messed up with Malcolm. Raising his voice, calling him out: it had been a huge mistake. He can't take his words back, but at least he can apologize. If Bright will even open the door for him, that is.

Gil presses the doorbell. After a brief moment, Malcolm's voice comes over the intercom.

"Who is it?"

"Hey, kid. It's Gil. I owe you an apology. Can you let me in?"

For a beat, there's silence. Gil feels the knot in his stomach tighten, then loosen again when the door buzzes. Thank God.

He goes up the steps to Malcolm's loft. When he reaches the door, he finds it unlocked. He enters.

Malcolm is sitting at the breakfast bar, dressed in dark sweats, fuzzy socks on his feet. He's nervously toying with an empty prescription pill bottle, spinning it around in his fingers. His hands are, unsurprisingly, shaking. His gaze is trained on the counter in front of him.

"Hey, Bright. Thanks for letting me in."

Malcolm nods in acknowledgment, not saying anything as Gil rounds the kitchen island, putting down the bag of food and the cardboard tray holding their coffees.  
The kid's eyes remain downcast as Gil continues.

"I'm sorry about last night. I shouldn't have said that stuff about everyone at work knowing you're in bad shape, or called you shaky. That was unfair. Truth is, I know you're trying really, really hard. I know things have been rough since you were... Since what happened, happened. And I know they weren't easy before then, either. I was wrong to yell at you. I'm worried, so damn worried, but that's no excuse. I'm really sorry."

Malcolm draws a shaky breath, eyes still fixed on the table. Gil sees a few tears drop down onto the gleaming surface.  
He has to hold himself back from pulling the kid into a hug. He waits for Malcolm to speak, the quiet stretching between them, broken only by Sunshine's occasional whistle. When Malcolm finally does speak, his voice is low, unsteady. The words come out haltingly at first, then seem to spill out all at once.

"I appreciate you saying that. But you weren't wrong, Gil. I am in bad shape. I'm seeing my therapist again but it's not really working. The night terrors are getting worse and my appetite is pretty much g-gone. The doctor wants me to take sleeping pills but I can't do that or I'll be- I'll be trapped. I'm scared all the time now and it's... I'm just... I'm really trying. I swear I am. I'm just- I'm so tired and I can't think straight and my father keeps calling me and he wants me to go see him again. And they still haven't caught the guy who took me and I'm scared to go to sleep and I'm... I'm so _tired_."

That's it. Gil can't stand it anymore. He goes to Bright and pulls him into an embrace, clutching the kid against himself. It's awkward, Bright sitting down on his stool and him standing up, but Gil doesn't care. He holds on. They stay like that for a long time, Gil stroking Malcolm's arm soothingly until the kid's ready to let go. He finally does, rubbing at his eyes surreptitiously, a futile attempt at hiding his tears.

"I'm sorry, I-"

Gil cuts him off, his tone soft but decisive.

"Don't, Malcolm. Don't apologize. Why don't you go sit on the couch, I brought brunch."

"Oh, brunch?", Malcolm chuckles, sniffling slightly as he makes his way to the living room area, "You spoil me, Gil!"

There they go, Gil thinks, they were down for a bit but they're back. Bright's walls, carefully built of smartassery and fake levity, are being reconstructed as they speak.

"Yeah, well. What can I say, you deserve it."

Gil's tone is playful, but really, he's not at all joking. The kid deserves the world, if you ask him.


End file.
